


Unrequited Lullaby

by Jemima_Puddleduck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1, 5+1 Things, Angst, Bond Night, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Implied/Referenced Torture, John and Mary's Wedding, John in Denial About His Sexuality, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, Not Actually Unrequited Love, PTSD John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexuality Crisis, Sherlock Sings, Sherlock is a Mess, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy John, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Unrequited Love, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-01 06:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10916595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemima_Puddleduck/pseuds/Jemima_Puddleduck
Summary: Five times Sherlock Holmes sang to John Watson and the one time he sang back.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock frowned as his eyes raked over John, lying curled up on the sofa across the room. He looked so small in the dim evening light, like a small animal protecting itself from the cold. He'd only just been released from Moriarty's clutches in a flurry of bomb jackets, swimming pools and snipers. Sherlock was beyond relived to have him home safe, but guilt gnawed at his insides as he realised it was all his fault. Moriarty knew that John was his weakness, only a few months living together and he'd made more of an impact on him than anyone before. But Sherlock knew that if it wasn't for him, John wouldn't be curled up, battered and bruised, on the worn sofa of 221B. 

Sherlock was deep in thought, contemplating his guilt, when a small whimper dragged him abruptly from his reverie. John struggled on the sofa, mumbling indecipherably in his sleep. His brows were deeply furrowed and his lips were moving quickly. Whatever he was dreaming of, it wasn't good. The detective was immediately by his side, kneeling at the head of the sofa and analysing John's every expression with sharp eyes. Cautiously, Sherlock put out a hand and softly took John's in his. John's lips stopped their frantic mumblings and stilled, but the frown held firmly in place. 

"Sher..." John mumbled in his sleep, his lips clumsy and heavy as they tried to make the words. 

"I'm here John." Sherlock whispered. 

John didn't seem to hear him; he was still writhing around on the sofa with distress. Sherlock quickly tried to come up with a way to ease his night terrors without waking him, but to no avail. John was becoming more terrified by the minute and Sherlock was at a loss of how to comfort him. 

The protectiveness he felt at the sensation of John's shaking hand in his finally gave him the inspiration he needed. Slowly, comforting words began to drift trough the near silence of 221B. 

_Lights will guide you home  
And ignite your bones_

_And I will try to fix you_

Sherlock sang softly from his heart, allowing the barriers to break down for just one moment. He knew he loved John. He'd known since the moment he realised John was the one who shot the cabbie for him. That glance across the car park was all it took, and there he was. The love of his life. To Sherlock, it all seemed so pitifully cliché, but sometimes not even he could hold back the most human of emotions.

John began to calm and his hand went limp in Sherlock's grasp. The detective continued his lullaby. The lyrics a solemn promise to John, whether he heard them or not. 

_Tears stream down your face,  
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes_

Sherlock's voice began to waiver as he came to the stark realisation that the lyrics described him more than John. His deep rumble became uncertain as he sang. 

_When you love someone but it goes to waste_

_Could it be worse?_

Sherlock's voice cracked heartbreakingly at the words and he couldn't continue. It was only seconds later that he felt the salty tracks of tears down his pale cheeks. John was limp and pliant against the sofa with a neutral expression replacing the frown, completely unaware that his flatmate was next to him, crying silently as he held John's hand.


	2. Chapter 2

The low rumble of the television became background noise to Sherlock as he turned to look at John. The man had just succumbed to the clutches of sleep, leaving the rest of their film unwatched. The doctor was certainly tipsy and empty beer bottles stood to attention on the coffee table like toy soldiers. The light from the television danced over his face, throwing patterns wherever it touched. Sherlock gazed down fondly at his friend as he snored through his alcohol-induced slumber. It was the first truly peaceful sleep John had had in weeks and Sherlock didn't want to risk waking him, especially when he looked so serene. His face was softer somehow, sleep blurring the edges and smoothing out the lines. 

The detective tried to stand, ready to quietly continue an experiment while John slept, but his flatmate had other ideas. John slumped over, leaning heavily on Sherlock's shoulder. There was no way of getting up without waking him; Sherlock was stuck. However, the proximity and feel of John pressing up against his side made Sherlock wonder if it was such a bad thing after all. He relished the feeling of being so close to John, breathing him in luxuriously and committing every detail of a sleepy, contented John to his mind palace. John turned slightly and buried his head against Sherlock's shoulder and the detective sucked in a shuddering breath as he felt John pressing his nose into him and exhaling softly on his arm. Being so close to John, while being unable to have him, almost broke Sherlock. Having the object of his unrequited affection nuzzling into his shoulder was almost too much, yet not nearly enough. The emotions surged through him like a tidal wave, more powerful than any drug. Before he realised he was doing it, he was singing out to John once more. 

_Wise men say,  
Only fools rush in,   
But I can't help falling in love with you_

Sherlock poured out his feelings once more to an utterly oblivious John Watson, letting the bottled up words come flooding out. He was holding the man he loved tightly in his arms and at that moment, nobody could have pulled him away. Yet his soft smile was crooked, the pain of unrequited feelings contorting the expression into one of pain. 

_Shall I stay?  
Would it be a sin?   
If I can't help falling in love with you_

John simply sighed in his sleep and cuddled closer, not realising that it was Sherlock's strong arms the encased him. Sherlock was singing in a feather-light whisper, letting the words fall right from his mouth into John's ear. It was a secret between them that only they could hear, a scandalous confession that would be wrong in anybody else's ears. 

_Like a river flows surely to the sea,  
Darling so it goes,   
Some things are meant to be_

The last line of the verse was sung in a pleading tone with a hint of desperation. Sherlock was staring at John's peaceful sleeping form with intensity, his bright irises almost willing him to wake up. 

_Take my hand,  
Take my whole life too,  
For I can't help falling in love with you._

Sherlock's sad resignation that what he so desperately needed would never be his echoed through he otherwise silent flat. Mycroft's warnings about not getting involved taunted Sherlock as he sang. It was too late. John Watson hadn't just taken his life, John was his life. He couldn't control the tidal wave of emotions that John had exposed him to, but at that moment, with the love of his life sleepy and pliant, clutched tightly in his arms, he couldn't find the strength to care.


	3. Chapter 3

Dim light from the street lamps pooled in a golden mass around Sherlock's feet as he staggered back towards 221B. His beloved coat was hanging around his shoulders. His armour. He just wanted to run inside and rip off the infernal suit that reminded him only of the fact that John had chosen someone else. Someone definitely _not Sherlock._ Every moment of the wedding replayed on a taunting loop in his head as he made his way down his own familiar street. 

The cold, unyielding wood of the door was comforting under Sherlock's fingers. He brushed the knocker with reverence, taking a moment to remember all the times he'd stumbled to this door with John, laughing all the way home. _Not any more._ He realised suddenly. He crept up the steps on tiptoe, hoping not to awake a sleeping Mrs Hudson. He didn't want her to see him like this anyway, his face was pale and drained and his eyes had lost their usual sparkle. 

When Sherlock finally stepped into the flat, it was relief and torture in equal measure. John's absence was too loud and Sherlock was getting a headache. John laughed at him from every corner, he was whistling in the kitchen, singing badly in the shower and tapping away at his keyboard all at once. Sherlock slumped, hitting the floor with a thud and proceeding to rip off his suit jacket and tie. He didn't even know why he was wearing it. He hated ties. The detective growled angrily and threw it across the room, hating everything it stood for. The waistcoat was next, hitting the wall with an unsatisfying thwack. 

Sherlock only registered that he was crying a few minutes later. He felt hot, angry tears rolling down his cheeks and his skin prickled with the injustice of it. He had to stand and watch him as he made vows to someone else. He had to play violin as they danced together, twirling and happy. Before long, glasses and test tubes were being flung at wall. When his scrabbling hands couldn't find anything else to throw, he sank his fist into the wall again and again till his knuckles were cracked and slick with blood. He yelled out as he finally gave in, sinking down onto the floor and letting his head flop against the seat of John's armchair. His whole body trembled from head to foot and it reminded him of the dark days of his addiction, when the withdrawal was so terrible that he couldn't keep his limbs still. This time, it was withdrawal from John that had left him a broken mess, sobbing into his best friend's armchair. When he opened his mouth, his voice came out more cracked, tortured and broken than he had ever heard it before. 

_I heard that you're settled down,  
That you've found a girl and you're married now_

The words were choked out through sobs, the harsh reality of the lyrics hitting Sherlock like a hard slap. 

_I heard that your dreams came true_

_Guess she gave you things I couldn't give to you_

He relived the moment he'd walked into the restaurant to see John, the nerves threatening to choke him. He'd walked to the table with anticipation, ready to be welcomed back into John's arms, the place he'd wanted to be for two long years. Instead, he was welcomed with John's new fiancé and a punch in the face. 

_I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited but I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it_

John's smell lingered on his armchair and Sherlock sank his nose into the fabric gratefully, muffling the words into the soft cushion.

_You know how the time flies,  
only yesterday was the time of our lives_

He just wanted happiness for John, that's why he'd gone through with being best man at the wedding. He wanted to be happy that John had found the love of his life but his heart broke at the thought that John's idea of happiness was _without him._

_Never mind, I'll find someone like you_

_I wish nothing but the best for you two_

Sherlock whispered out the rest of the chorus, the words barely audible through the cracked and broken voice. It was the tiniest whisper of a message for John, choked aloud into the stifling air of 221B

_Don't forget me, I beg_

Sherlock lost all words then, letting heaving sobs rack his body. He clutched onto John's chair as if it was keeping him alive, his knuckles going white. He woke up there on the floor the next morning with cramp in his legs and a fresh, steaming cup of tea on the floor beside him, waiting patiently for him to wake up.


	4. Chapter 4

A peaceful silence had finally settled over 221B, punctuated only by the soft snoring coming from the sofa and the quiet burbles emanating from the baby monitor on the coffee table. Sherlock, predictably, was still wide awake. He was drinking in the rare sense of peace only found during those twilight hours when the streets of London finally quiet. 

In all honesty, having John back home was the best birthday present Sherlock could have dared hope for, but there was a certain bittersweetness in seeing him curled back up on the sofa again. So much had changed, and not necessarily for the better. John was broken and a widow, a far cry from the brave solider Sherlock had once known. He knew he would get the old John Watson back eventually, and with a lot of hard work, but it would never be quite the same again between them. Sherlock contemplated this while leaning back against the sofa his best friend was snoring on. John's presence comforted him, placated him, and he felt the need to get as close as possible without delving into the realm of 'not good'. Sherlock had only just regained John's trust; he wasn't going to let his emotions take control and ruin everything he'd worked for. Sherlock mourned the time when he and John could spend all day sitting in flat, throwing witty quips at each other as they worked. He mourned for the ease between them that had been lost to ice and bitterness. 

Deep down, Sherlock knew that John's anger was justified. He made a vow, he promised protection, and in the end he had failed. He was a failure. That deserved a lot more than anger in Sherlock's mind. He had relished every blow that John had laid upon him, willing to be the punchbag for the friend he had so throughly let down. It was in those soft early hours, deep in the cushion of night, that Sherlock fully realised that he would do anything for John Watson. Die? Of course, dying was easy. Torture? Not so easy. But he'd do it all. Anything. For John. His John. 

Sherlock decided to make a new vow. One he would keep, this time. A promise to John that he would never hear, but would surely feel. 

_When the rain is blowing in your face, and the whole world is on your case._

_I could offer you a warm embrace, to make you feel my love_

Sherlock recalled the details of the hug they had shared earlier that evening, John shaking in his arms and wrecked with tears. Sherlock had been unsure, holding him gently as if he was going to break him. Then John had pressed into him, shuddering, and Sherlock had come to the realisation that John was already broken. And it was his fault. He'd hugged him tighter then, a comfort and apology rolled into one, the guilt and remorse outing out through his fingertips. 

_When the evening shadows and the stars appear, and there is no one there to dry your tears,_

_I could hold you for a million years  
To make you feel my love _

Sherlock remembered his own words, that love was a vicious motivator. He had been right about that, and he certainly loved John Watson more than he thought possible to love anybody. In his mind he was still begging John to love him in return, even after all those years, even after all the heartbreak. To him, John was still the battle-scarred soldier who had shown him how to love. He still remembered the exact moment he had fallen with no chance of return, watching John stand calmly behind the police tape after saving his life, positively glowing under the dim light of the street lamps with an amused expression on his face. 

_I know you haven't made your mind up yet, but I would never do you wrong_

_I've known it from the moment that we met_

_No doubt in my mind where you belong_

Sherlock's voice was purposeful as he sang, with meaning and emotion dripping from the words that poured out of him. John simply snored on above his head, unaware that he had a solemn protector who was promising his life to keep him safe. Sherlock ha already been keeping John safe the two years he was away, without the older man even knowing it. Sherlock had been beaten, starved and tortured for weeks to keep John safe. He'd had moments when he thought he would snap, when he was going to cry, or beg, or worse. And always, one image would come into his head and it would keep him fighting. John, standing across the car park under the street lamp. He would chant it like a mantra in his head. _John, John. John._ And he would remember what he was fighting for. 

_I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue  
I'd go crawling down the avenue_

_There's nothing that I wouldn't do  
To make you feel my love_

As he got to the final lines, Sherlock was crying yet again. A common occurrence these days, with the emotions coming to the surface too quickly for him to silence them. He used to be better at hiding, but he was tired of hiding now. The final promise for John wasn't in his head. The final lines had never taken up residence in his mind palace. They were too risky, too volatile, too full of love, to ever enter his uncluttered mind. The last words he sang that night, sat on the cold floorboards with John sleeping just inches away, came right from the deepest point of his heart as he dared to imagine the future he would never have. 

_I could make you happy  
Make your dreams come true _

_There's nothing that I wouldn't do,  
Go to the ends of the earth for you_

_To make you feel my love_

He finished the song with his own warm, pulsing hand encasing John's limp, sleep-leadened fingers. He finally took the chance to relax, with the pain of his wounds sapping away at the touch of his doctor.


	5. Chapter 5

John sighed sleepily and slumped backwards in his armchair, enjoying the reprieve from his screaming toddler. Sherlock watched his eyelids flutter like butterflies as they closed. There were puffy bags under his eyes, and frown lines etched deeper than they had been a month ago, but Sherlock smiled crookedly at him as a torrent of warm emotions surged through him. 

"This is nice." John sighed happily, his words slurred with sleep. "Feels like the good old days." 

John's eyebrows suddenly crinkled with thought. Sherlock watched intently, trying to deduce what he could be thinking about. 

"I want to stay." John said quietly. 

"You...you want to move back in?" Sherlock asked, stuttering slightly. It was more than he'd dared hope.

"Hmm." John affirmed. "Coming home."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curled up of their accord. He couldn't hope to contain the grin spreading all the way up into his eyes, making them sparkle in the soft evening light. He took in the scene; John Watson spread out sleepily across the sofa, all limbs hanging limply this way and that and soft grey hair splayed out haphazardly. The detective drank it all in with a particular soft fondness he reserved only for his blogger and admired his sleeping form, basked in the dull orange light pouring in through the window. John's face began to slacken and Sherlock could tell he was almost asleep. 

In Sherlock's mind, looking at John Watson was like basking in the sun on a summer's day. It made his skin tingle pleasantly and an indescribable warmth spread through him. John was a shaft of sunlight in a forest, and as he thought of a lullaby to fill the silence of the flat, there was only one song that could come close to describing his feelings for his John. His conductor of light. 

_Look at the stars, look how they shine for you, and everything you do_

_They were all yellow_

Sherlock's voice was gentle, a low rumble piercing the silence. As the song continued, he became braver. He stood up and made his way over to John, settling on his knees next to the sofa and studying John's sleeping face. 

_Your skin, your skin and bones_

_turn into something beautiful_

John was vaguely aware of a presence next to him as he drifted into consciousness. A familiar honey baritone filtered through the barrier of sleep and into his thoughts. He came to his senses just in time to realise it was Sherlock. And he was _singing._

_You know I love you so_

_You know I love you so_

John lay there holding his breath, not knowing how to respond. Surely Sherlock could deduce he wasn't asleep. His heart was hammering against his ribcage and his throat was painfully tight. He knew his face must be giving it away and he was beginning to panic when he felt a feather light touch on his forehead. A quick brush of impossibly soft lips that made John's heart stop. 

John opened his eyes instinctively and Sherlock froze into place. He cursed himself as he saw John's confused face inches from his. The disgust would be soon to follow and then everything would be ruined. He'd just got John back and now he was going to loose him agin. It was almost too much to take and Sherlock was about to turn away when John caught him with one hand. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat at the contact. Without warning, John's lips were on his and they were kissing hungrily, as if they'd been starved. 

John pulled back first, gasping for breath. "You sang to me. I heard you." 

"Yes." Sherlock replied, breathless and in shock. 

"It was beautiful." John said almost inaudibly. 

"Come here." He told Sherlock gently, tugging at his wrist with a sleep-heavy hand. 

Sherlock obeyed and felt himself being pulled down, the worn fabric of the sofa pressing against his skin and John wrapping his arms around him. Sherlock settled his head on John's chest, they way he'd always dreamt of doing. He was afraid to breathe, just in case it was another dream, but this John was gloriously real. Solid, muscular arms encircled him warmly and Sherlock took starved, gasping breaths of John's scent, hardly believing his luck. John could feel the detective shaking like a frightened puppy in his embrace. 

"It's alright Sherlock. Just sleep." John almost whispered, his fingers dancing in comforting spirals across Sherlock's trembling back. 

Sherlock finally let himself relax into John, entwining their bodies until neither one could tell where they stopped and the other began. They fell asleep that way, curled together on the sofa and clutching at each other. Neither of them wanted to let go.


	6. Chapter 6

Panic. That was the first emotion to race through John's mind as he woke up the next morning. Sherlock was entwined happily in his arms and John was wondering how he managed to get himself to that point. The memories came back to him slowly as he blinked in the harsh morning light. He'd kissed Sherlock. _Oh God_ , he'd kissed Sherlock. 

The anxiety rose up in John, filling him, taking him over. Before he could think, he'd scrambled off the sofa and was staring, terrified, at his sleeping friend. He was completely lost. He didn't know how he could have possibly thought that kissing Sherlock was a good idea. He'd probably ruined their friendship for good in less than a minute and he didn't know how he could possibly go on and move back in now, knowing that Sherlock was hopelessly in love with him. As usual, he'd made a mess of it.

So he did the only thing the brave soldier could think of doing. He ran. 

He ended up outside 221B in the chilly January air with a sleepy Rosie tucked into his chest. 

\----------------

Sherlock woke up, dazed, and rolled over. He felt the still-warm patch where John had slept and deduced that he couldn't have gone far. He sat up with a contented smile plastered on his face, quickly scanning the room for John. His cheery expression crumbled and fell away at the sight of the coat hook, John's was missing. His phone had gone from the coffee table. 

The detective stumbled up the stairs frantically, his limbs still half-asleep and not co-operating. Rosie was gone from her cot and all the supplies with her. John was gone, and he wasn't planing on coming back. 

Sherlock crumpled to the floor, unable to hold the added weight of his despair. He sat in a heap on the floor, all alone. Of course John couldn't really love him. Of course he was gone. John had merely humoured him, then ran at the first opportunity he had. He'd been stupid. So _stupid_.How could he ever love someone like Sherlock?

He didn't have enough strength to punch any more. He instead feebly pounded his fists into the floorboards like a frustrated toddler while hot, stinging tears obscured his vision. He had had everything he needed to be happy, and all his dreams had come true. Just for one moment, everything had been perfect, and now he had to lose it again. The injustice of it all burned his skin and he prickled all over, part of him was angry that john had left, while the other part was simply heartbroken. 

\-----------------

It was late afternoon and John settled himself at the table with a notepad and pen. Rosie was playing happily on the living room carpet, throwing colourful blocks in all directions. John had finally calmed himself from that morning, and was finally ready to put his cluttered and disorganised thoughts into words. He half-heartedly wrote a few sentences, but anything that flowed from the pen was just wrong somehow. Everything he wrote sounded stupid. John sighed despairingly and let his head fall into his hands. How could he have possibly thought that was okay? He had a daughter to think of. A daughter who had just lost her mother. He had kissed his old flatmate when his own wife had only just been buried. He was disgusted with himself. He felt dirty. He wasn't even gay, he'd said so enough times.

As John tried to collect his thoughts, certain memories popped into his head unbidden. Sherlock smiling and laughing, eyes shining. His breath catching in his throat when Sherlock almost dropped the sheet at Buckingham Palace. The straining buttons on his favourite purple shirt and the casual ruffle of his unruly curls.  John found himself reliving the moment he was so terrified of, those perfect, sensual, Cupid's bow lips brushing his with a gentle insistency. John remembered how, in his sleepy state with inhibitions lowered, he'd pulled his wayward detective back for more.  

John sighed as he realised the true reason behind his fear. He wasn't scared because he'd made a mistake, he was scared because he wanted it. And badly. And now he really had ruined everything. He'd taken the coward's way out and run out of the flat in shame, leaving Sherlock to wake up alone. He could hardly imagine what his friend must be feeling. John knew he'd treated him badly by running away. Part of him believed that Sherlock didn't deserve him now and fully expected the other man to refuse. But that wouldn't stop him from trying. 

\-----------------

221B Baker Street looked like a bomb site. John walked in with his mouth hanging open at the level of destruction. Things had been smashed, shots had been fired, and in the middle of it all was Sherlock, curled up in John's armchair with his hands fisted into the fabric. John could only hope with bated breath, that Sherlock hadn't resorted to drugs again. He examined his friend carefully, and his breath caught painfully in his chest as he took in Sherlock's bloody knuckles. John had been an idiot, and this was the result. He should have known that Sherlock was vulnerable, and he'd left him. The feeling of disgust crept back in, filling John from head to toe. He had to put it right. He needed Sherlock, Mary be damned. 

He recalled the impossibly deep voice signing right into his ear, a gentle, honey-sweet melody that had sent shivers down his spine. He finally let out his own song for Sherlock. An apology and a promise. 

_Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry, you don't know how lovely you are_

John was gently smoothing out Sherlock's wild curls, letting his fingers slip effortlessly through the silk-smooth strands. Sherlock still had an expression of pain lingering in his sleeping features and John's lyrics became heavier with emotion as he desperately tried to fix the damage he'd done. 

_I had to find you, tell you I need you  
Tell you I set you apart._

Sherlock was suddenly aware of another's voice penetrating the silence. He heard deep, melodic notes reverberating around him. John. He thought it must be a dream, making this reality up for himself because the truth was too painful to bear. It took him a few seconds to realise that it was definitely real and suddenly his breathing was laboured and his firmly closed eyes were prickling. 

_Nobody said it was easy,  
No one ever said it would be this hard_

_Oh take me back to the start_

Sherlock could feel John's hand softly running through his hair and it was nearly too much for him to stand. John would realise that he wasn't asleep soon, but then he might stop singing. Sherlock wanted to relish the moment for as long as possible, letting John's words wash over him. To him, the lyrics described them perfectly. 

_I was just guessing at numbers and figures, pulling your puzzles apart_

_Questions of science, science and progress, do not speak as loud as my heart_

John, finally being brave, had moved his hand into Sherlock's, half-confession, half-apology. The song let him pour out everything that had built up inside him, bottled up for so long and finally, blessedly released. It was only now he truly realised the magnitude of his love for Sherlock Holmes, and the fact that he'd probably been secretly in love with him since before the fall. 

_Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me_

Sherlock knew those words were about his supposed death. The pain in John's voice as he sang them finally made Sherlock lose his composure. He imagined John, sitting alone in the flat, mourning him. A tear slid down Sherlock's cheek, unable to be contained any longer. John stuttered in his song at the sight, knowing that Sherlock was awake, but quickly regained himself and continued. Sherlock's heart was fit to burst and he heard John keep singing for him. Now, the emotional declarations pouring out in a melody were supposed to be heard. 

_Nobody said it was easy  
No one ever said it would be this hard_

_I'm going back to the start_

Sherlock opened his eyes and was faced with John, inches away, eyes watering. 

"You came back." Sherlock breathed, only just holding back a sob. 

"I came back." John confirmed, and Sherlock's breath caught painfully in his chest once more. 

John leaned in and finally brushed Sherlock's lips with his. His whole body tingled pleasantly at the sensation and warm wrapped around him. They were back home, and they were together. Just how it should be.

"Are you staying?" Sherlock asked nervously, when he pulled back.

"Of course I'm staying." John replied, and he'd never ever forget the bright smile that reached all the way up to Sherlock's eyes in reply as he leaned back in for more.


End file.
